


Future Perfect

by Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst and Humor, Anxiety, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Holster is Large and full of emotions and is also entirely oblivious, M/M, Pining, except the benefits are ten peeled hardboiled eggs in the morning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-02-22 23:08:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13177146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells
Summary: WANTED: COMMITTED MONOGAMOUS COUPLESAre you and your significant other in a committed, monogamous relationship? Have you been dating for at least six months? Are you living together? If you meet these criteria (and you are at least 18 years old), you may be eligible to participate in a COMPENSATED study (up to $300) on love and decision making. Please call 617-555-7864 or email romance.jenningslab@samwell.eduThe moment he sees the sign, Holster knows he's struck gold. The only problem is, he and Ransom aren't technically dating. But who are romance and technicalities to stand in the way of a business scheme that's bound to go according to plan?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of this prompt I saw on tumblr [here](http://halfabreath.tumblr.com/post/167385171329/soholsom-relenafanel-lesbianrey-looks) . And I just...had to write it. So, here we are. The second half should be up within the next couple weeks, after I finish tweaking a few scenes. 
> 
>  
> 
> Find me on tumblr at: [http://tintinnabulation-of-the-bells.tumblr.com/](http://tintinnabulation-of-the-bells.tumblr.com)

The moment Holster sees the sign, he knows he’s struck gold.

 

WANTED: COMMITTED MONOGAMOUS COUPLES

_Are you and your significant other in a committed, monogamous relationship? Have you been dating for at least six months? Are you living together? If you meet these criteria (and you are at least 18 years old), you may be eligible to participate in a COMPENSATED study (up to $300) on love and decision making. Please call 617-555-7864 or email_[romance.jenningslab@samwell.edu](mailto:romance.jenningslab@samwell.edu).

 

He rips one of the little tabs off the bottom of the poster and sticks it in his wallet, praying it won’t slip out or bury itself amidst all the other junk accumulated in the sleeves. Then, just to be cautious he rips a second one away and shoves it into his jacket pocket. Finally, he snaps a quick picture of the sign, for easy explanation.

 

Now he just needs to find Ransom, and then the fun can begin.

 

 

He doesn’t see Ransom until after dinner that night. With Ransom crammed into his lab, trying desperately to finish splicing some gene or amino acid or whatever (Holster hasn’t touched biology since high school, and whatever he does know is largely due to his role as flashcard reader extraordinaire), sometimes things like a proper meal fall to the wayside. When Ransom finally trudges up to their room after nine, his nose twitches.

 

“Did you get food from the d-hall?” he asks, eyes flitting around the room in search of this food.

 

Holster jerks his head towards the mini-fridge. “Chicken and pasta, with some pesto-ey sauce. Wasn’t bad.”

 

Ransom practically sags in relief. “Dude, you are a lifesaver. I’m not sure I could have waited another twenty minutes for takeout at Chang’s. Plus, you know, meal plan stuff is free and med school applications are already kicking my ass financially as well as, well, in every other way.” He makes a beeline for the fridge.

 

It’s almost too perfect. “Ahem,” he says, clearing his throat after a few seconds. “I may actually have something which could help with that.”

 

Ransom already has a large chunk of chicken stuffed into his mouth, straight from the Tupperware. “With what?”

 

“The money thing.”

 

Ransom swallows his chicken, Adam’s apple bobbing. He promptly stuffs another bite in before speaking. “For the last time, we can’t sell off Bitty’s pies on the side. That’s like, illegal. Or at the very least very unfair to Bitty.”

 

Typical Ransom, always ragging on him for his business schemes being “unethical” and “unviable” and “just plain fucking stupid.” “First of all,” he says, ticking off the list on his finger, “we would have split the profits. And second of all, this has nothing to do with Bitty. Or with food of any kind.”

 

Justin slumps into the seat at his desk. “I’m listening.”

 

It takes Holster a minute to fish out the little scrap of paper from his wallet, and when he tosses it at Ransom, Ransom just blinks. Then he meets Holster’s gaze with uneasy eyes.

 

“Uhh, just making sure, this isn’t like a number for a pimp or a dating service or something? A number and an email for ‘romance?’”

 

Holster snorts. “Jesus, no. I mean, you’re definitely handsome enough for it, but this is just for some psych study.”

 

Ransom groans. “Those things only pay like five bucks an hour though.”

 

“This is different! It’s like a long-term thing, and the sign said it paid like three hundred dollars.”

 

Ransom immediately perks up. “Wait, really?”

 

“Yeah, bud.”

 

“So what’s the study about? If they’re paying three hundred bucks, then it must be kind of intense. Like electrodes on your head, or some weird diet. We definitely can’t do weird diets during the season, and _you_ definitely can’t do any diet that doesn’t involve copious quantities of eggs, meat and carbs.”

 

“Chillax, man,” he says. As usual, Ransom is immediately overthinking things.  “I think it’s just harder to recruit people, it being a couples’ study and all.” He pulls out his phone, swipes to the picture he snapped earlier in the day, and holds it up to Ransom’s face. It only takes a few seconds for Ransom to read through the description, and his reaction is instantaneous.

 

Ransom freezes, his entire, rambling train of thought vanquished in an instant. He speaks slowly, carefully. “Neither of us is dating anyone. Unless…unless there’s something you’re trying to tell me.”

 

Now he’s the one who falls to the bed, exasperated. “No, no, no, the couple here is us.”

 

“Again, I repeat, last I knew, neither of us is dating anyone, let alone each other.”

 

“Sure, technically, we’re not actually a couple. But look, everything else on here fits us perfectly.” He jabs his finger at the photo. “Living together? Check. Dating for six months? We’re not dating, technically, but we’ve known each other for more than three years. Committed, monogamous relationship? I’m pretty committed to being your best bro, I’d say, and you’re definitely the only best bro I got.”

 

“But we’re not actually together! What if they want us to, I don’t know, kiss or something!”

 

Holster peers over the rim of his glasses, trying to channel Shitty’s best disappointed-in-heterosexuality stare. “Are you saying you wouldn’t kiss me for three hundred dollars? It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

 

A reddish tinge overtakes Ransom’s cheeks, imbuing his skin with the deepest blush Holster’s ever seen cross his face. Ransom isn’t easily flustered; anxious sure, and quick to rile on the right occasion—Holster took a bad check one game in their sophomore year, and he’d honestly felt some sympathy for the guy who’d issued the check, so ferocious was Ransom’s retaliation—but not thrown off his guard like this. For a man with a fairly severe case of anxiety, Ransom’s surprisingly in control of any emotions unrelated to his semester-ly breakdowns.

 

“That was…that was different,” stammers Ransom. He sets down his chicken. “I mean, we were drunk!”

 

“I don’t need to be drunk to kiss you,” says Holster. “Look, I could kiss you right now, no problem. See?”

 

He doesn’t give Ransom the time to process his declaration. Instead, he reaches over quickly and plants a firm kiss on Ransom’s lips. He doesn’t linger more than a few seconds before withdrawing, the taste of coconut chapstick still fresh on his mouth. It’s funny, he’s so accustomed to everything else about Ransom—the shape of his body, the texture of his skin, his scent (both the smell of his understated, vanilla-tinged cologne and the ripe odor of his post-practice, pre-shower body), even the patterns of his breath as he falls asleep—but taste still reeks with unfamiliarity. And how would he know? This last kiss only brings their total count up to three.

 

Still, it feels right. It feels right that he should know everything about Ransom. And they’ll have to know each other like this if they want to pull off this scheme.

 

Ransom still hasn’t spoken. He’s lifted one hand to his lips, and state of shock appears to have replaced any previous flustering. His hand falls to his lap, but then quickly rises again, as if to confirm the sensation.

 

“Rans, you good?” He taps lightly on Ransom’s cheek. “Anyone in there?”

 

“Did you…did you just kiss me?”

 

He rolls his eyes. “Uh, yeah. You sure you’re okay there? It’s a little early in the semester for full blue screen of death.”

 

“You kissed me?”

 

“Yes, Justin, I did. Look, I’ll do it again.” He reaches over again, and this time, he lifts his hands to Ransom’s cheek as well, cradling his face. He waits longer, to ensure that there’s no question, and then pulls away gently, allowing mere centimeters to separate their lips.

 

“See?” he breathes. “Not so hard, is it?”

 

The second kiss has triggered another bout of shock, it seems. Ransom stares at him, his lips slightly parted, but again provides only silence in response.

 

“Well,” he says, drawing back, “we’re going to have to work on this if we want the three hundred bucks. But I think we can pull it off.” He slaps Ransom on the back. “I’ve actually got to run—study group for econometrics. But think on it, yeah? Seems like pretty easy money.”

 

He leaves Ransom there, still gobsmacked, in the attic. Ransom’ll come around. It’s only a matter of time.

 

Later that night, he gets a text. _ok i'll do it_.

 

He’s fully prepared to discuss it when he returns from the study session, but for once, Ransom has fallen asleep before him.

 

 

 

He makes their first appointment with the lab the next day. They tell him there’s an opening that afternoon, and as it so happens, neither of them have class. It’s a bit sooner than he expected, which leaves little time to fine-tune their story, but ultimately, they actually have to make up less than he expected.

 

“So, we’ve been best friends since we were frogs,” he says, as they’re strolling towards the lab, which is set perhaps a twenty-minute walk from the main campus area. “And then, last year, we drunkenly made out at a kegster, right outside the porch.”

 

“All true,” says Ransom, who’s fortunately handling this discussion of kissing with more maturity than before.

 

“Basically, we can keep most things the same. Except, instead of that little incident being a one-time thing, maybe say we did it again, and then again, until we finally realized maybe if we liked it so much, we should do it sober. And then that just evolved into a relationship. I mean, we already spend half our time together anyways.”

 

“Also true,” says Ransom.

 

“Plus, we lived together for a good chunk of the summer, and you spent Thanksgiving with my family because Canada’s weird and has their thanksgiving in October—

 

“—oh, like America’s one to talk.”

 

“—and then _I_ spent part of the winter holidays with you, after I dove up to Toronto. So, like, it all seems pretty legit.”

 

Ransom halts, and Holster’s about to ask what happened when he realizes they’ve reached the lab. It’s a nondescript, colonial-style wood house, which likely used to be someone’s residence before Samwell purchased and converted it.

 

“This is it, huh?”

 

Ransom nods, eyes fixed on the building. Wordlessly, Holster grabs his hand, entwines it with his own. Ransom stiffens at the contact, so he leans over, whispers, “Relax, Justin. We got this,” and Ransom releases some of the tension from his body.

 

They find the room quickly, which is occupied only by wall to wall bookshelves, a folding plastic table, and three plastic chairs, one of which is occupied by a woman slowly walking a yo-yo back and forth along the floor with an expression of unadulterated boredom. When she catches Holster’s eye, though, she perks up.

 

“Adam?” she ventures, blinking owlishly through large glasses.

 

He nods, and she gestures towards the two seats across from her at the table. “Please sit.”

 

They release hands as they sit, but he swings an arm around Ransom’s shoulder, gives the muscle there a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

 

The woman smiles broadly, and her curly hair bounces energetically around her face, giving some liveliness to her expression. Her pale, nearly translucent skin suggests a life spent largely in lab, but her smile reveals both dimples and a hint of rosy color. A stack of papers and two clipboards lie just to her left, along with plethora of pens.

 

She holds out her hand for a shake. “Adam, and you must be Adam’s partner, whose name is…”

 

“Justin,” says Ransom, taking her hand for firm shake.

 

It’s odd hearing Ransom referred to as his partner, at least off the ice. But it’s probably more accurate than boyfriend. Ransom is his partner, in hockey, in crime, countless other ways.

 

“Lovely to meet you both,” says the woman. “I’m Clara, and before we go any further, I just need to make sure that meet our initial eligibility requirements. Hate to have you fill out all the forms, only for something to not work out!”

 

Holster squeezes Ransom’s shoulder preemptively.

 

“So,” says Clara. “You both are over 18, I presume.” She pulls out a notebook, begins scribbling in the top corner.

 

“Right,” says Holster. “I’m 24, and Justin here is 21.”

 

“Oh?” Clara pauses in her scribbling. “Are you both graduate students?”

 

Ah. Sometimes Holster’s age throws people off. “Both undergrads, actually. I took a couple years off in between high school and college to play hockey. But we’re both seniors.”

 

Clara taps her chin with her pen. “I haven’t heard of many undergraduate couples who live together, which is also part of the criteria.”

 

“Our situation is a bit unusual,” he concedes. “We live in the hockey team’s house, have since our sophomore years. We lived in the same room, even before we started dating, and well, after we started dating, there was no need to change anything. Made it a little bit easier, actually.”

 

“And you two share a bed?” She grimaces apologetically. “I’m sorry that these questions are personal, but it’s the nature of the study, and part of our cohabitation requirement involves sharing a bed.”

 

“Usually,” says Ransom and Holster fights to keep his surprise from showing. He was expecting to do nearly all the talking. But Ransom continues: “It’s a little tricky since we actually have bunk beds. We do it when we can, but sometimes one of us needs to stretch out a little more, or just needs some extra space for a good night’s sleep.” He chuckles. “It’s not ideal, but we’re not buying a new bed at the moment, not until we get our own place next year. So we make do.”

 

“But more often than not, you do?”

 

“Yes, more often than not,” confirms Ransom. Holster gives his shoulder another squeeze.

 

“And how long have you been together?”

 

“Ten months,” says Holster. “Since New Year’s Eve of last year. And if you’re worried about us not living together for a full six months, we lived together over the summer, except for a couple weeks at the beginning and end when we were each back with our families. Even then we visited.”

 

Clara scribbles all of this down in her notepad. When she finishes, she pushes her glasses up the ridge of her nose and looks carefully between the two of them. “You’re right, it is a little unusual,” she says, and Holster’s heart sinks. Even if they haven’t spent much time in their charade just yet, he still feels _invested_ in this study for some reason. Maybe the effort of constructing a whole alternative timeline for their relationship has something to do with it. Then she continues, “That being said, we don’t have any same-sex couples in the study so far, which is an oversight I’d like to avoid if possible. And as unusual as your circumstance is, you do meet the requirements, bunk beds and all.”

 

“That’s great to hear,” he says.

 

“Now,” says Clara, “I suppose you’ll want to hear about the study itself. So, excuse me while I blabber a little.”

 

The study, as it turns out, requires both of them to keep a journal, and each night, to answer a question regarding the future and their decision-making process. She warns them both that while they should record their daily interactions, especially with each other, the journals will be collected for research, so “uh, just… you know, don’t write anything you don’t want me or my adviser reading.”

 

Clara promises to send an email with specific instructions as a reminder, and then she sends them on their way. All in all, the process takes less than forty minutes.

 

The fresh air greets them briskly as they exit the building. He’s so focused on basking in the gorgeous fall weather that it takes him almost five minutes to notice Ransom’s uncharacteristic taciturnity.

 

“Dude, you okay?” he asks, nudging Ransom’s shoulder with his own.

 

“What? Yeah, of course,” says Ransom, but his tone rings a little off. And Holster should know. He’s got perfect pitch for music, and his understanding of Ransom is nearly as perfect, at least in his humble opinion.

 

“If something’s bothering you, I don’t know, like ethically or something, we’re barely lying here,” he says.

 

Ransom sort of chokes on his words, and Holster wonders if maybe his friend has taken that bioethics class a little too seriously. For his part, he’s never taken an ethics class, so he’s not really sure what they discuss there.

 

“No,” says Ransom, having swallowed around his hesitation. “No, I was just curious about something, I guess.”

 

“All you got to do is ask, bro.”

 

“Well, I was just wondering why you picked New Year’s Eve as our anniversary. Or, not anniversary, but the beginning of our relationship.”

 

“Huh.” Well, the obvious answer is that they had kissed exactly twice before yesterday, once drunkenly at a Haus party, and then another drunken time at Ransom’s New Year’s Eve party in Toronto. Plus, people kissed their significant others at midnight. It had seemed like a reasonable, romantic starting point, and frankly, he’s surprised Ransom hadn’t understood. “Dunno, man. Just thinking about times when people might do shit like that. Get together, I mean.”

 

“No other reason?” asks Ransom, his voice tight.

 

Holster actually stops walking. “Uh, should there be?” He snags Ransom’s wrist, yanks him back to prevent escape. “What’s going on man?”

 

Ransom just shakes his head. “Like I said, nothing’s going on. I just want to get our story straight. And, you know, ethics, I guess. Actually,” he says, “that reminds me. I should check on something in lab. See you later, man.”

 

And then Ransom is bolting off in the opposite direction, backpack flapping in the breeze, leaving him with the distinct sensation that something is wrong.

 

It must be the ethics, he thinks as he trudges back to the Haus alone, bereft of his usual conversation partner. Ransom, for all of his jockish behavior, has a surprisingly strong moral compass. Not enough of one to ruin all of their fun with self-righteousness, but enough that he’s felt himself tugged along slowly throughout the course of their friendship. Now, looking back, he wouldn’t say half the shit he’d spewed as a seventeen year old, in part because he knows it was wrong, and in part because he knows it would eventually drive Ransom away.

 

Sometimes, when he thinks about it for a few minutes, it’s a little strange that one person’s impact on his personality, on his very way of thinking, is so profound. But most of the time, he can’t be bothered to care.

 

Still, something about the situation has tickled Ransom’s sense of morality, even if he doesn’t fully understand why. They’re so close anyways, they’ll barely have to lie. Still, he wants to minimize the damage to Ransom’s delicate sensibilities, so he’ll need to figure out something.

 

Once back at the Haus, he settles into the couch for an afternoon of work before practice. It turns out to be one of the least productive sessions of the week.

 

 

Things are…mostly normal. Which is to say, nothing outwardly has changed, but his Ransom-meter, which usually moves rather predictably (grumpier in the mornings before coffee, mild anxiety after biochem classes or lab, happier after practice before the stress of school returns) has been fluctuating wildly, oscillating between “great” and “handle with extreme care” for seemingly no reason. He chalks some of it up to job applications and worries about the future, which is definitely understandable. So he doesn’t panic. There’s no reason to, so long as both of them are functioning at their usual rhythm. Each night, he writes in the journal, and each night, he sees Ransom do the same.

 

At practice the next Monday, though, both he and Ransom are distracted; this is nothing new. They’re often distracted by each other, but this time is different. After their roadie to Cornell, during which Ransom had been quite stressed due to an exam Monday morning, he’d hoped for a little return to form. Instead, Ransom is reacting a second slower, forgetting to call out and communicate like they always do. Ransom usually warns him when someone’s coming in hot, but today there’s no such assistance. He’s completely caught off guard when Dex comes in for the check during a scrimmage, and the impact leaves him winded.

 

“Shit, man, you good?” asks Dex as he struggles to his feet.

 

Fuck. He really had not been prepared, and Dex is probably the second biggest guy on the team after him; he’s still wheezing quietly even after regaining his footing. He leans back against the boards, contemplating the merits of just falling back to the ground, when a steady hand suddenly appears at his back.

 

Ransom.

 

“Birkholtz, you good?” shout Coach Hall as he skates over.

 

He tries to respond, but all that spills out is a cough followed by a gasp for air.

 

“Oluransi, take Birkholtz to the room,” orders Hall, and before he can protest, Ransom is gently shoving him forward, hand still at his back. They don’t speak as they glide along, nor as Ransom gives Holster a little boost onto the table in the trainer’s room. Ransom listens quietly as the trainer questions him. By now, he can mostly properly breathe, but there’s definitely some bruising around his side, so Jake the trainer retreats to the ice to talk to the coach, leaving the two of them alone.

 

“How’re you feeling?” asks Ransom quietly. He’s still sporting all his equipment, but he seems smaller than usual despite the bulky pads.

 

“I’ll be fine,” he shrugs, shifting the ice pack against his ribcage.

 

“Rough hit. Normally you don’t get caught like that.”

 

_Normally you make sure of that_ , he wants to say.

 

“Right,” he says instead. “Feeling a bit off today I guess.” He peers down at Ransom. “How are you feeling?”

 

The question clearly surprises Ransom, who straightens up in his chair. “Me? I’m fine. I wasn’t hit.”

 

He shakes his head. “Not what I mean. Just—you good? I feel like I’m not the only one who’s a little off today.”

 

Ransom narrows his eyes. “Really, I’m fine.”

 

“You sure? Because this whole weeks, you’ve been kinda quiet. Not that I’m not loud enough for the two of us, but still.” He doesn’t really want to explain the Ransom-meter right now.

 

He sees Ransom hesitate, sees him open his mouth to speak, but then Ransom clamps his mouth shut.

 

He sighs. “Is it the whole study thing? Is that what’s bugging you?”

 

Ransom doesn’t respond. Holster takes this as a yes.

 

“Look, bud, if the whole thing’s too much, then we can drop out, you know. It’s still early stages.” He pauses, trying to figure out how to word his next thoughts. “I know that, like, lying’s not really your thing. Or it bothers you more than me at least. Is that what’s up?”

 

Ransom hesitates, but nods tightly.

 

“Okay, so, I don’t know, maybe we try making things a bit more honest.”

 

Ransom furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

 

“Like right now, if we were dating, what would you do?”

 

This question gives Ransom pause, but he recovers quickly enough. “I’d probably sit next to you.”

 

Holster scoots over to the side, ignoring the small twinges of his body. “Then hop up.”

 

“What?”

 

He rolls his eyes. “Hop up. Sit next to me. Do what you’d do if we were dating.”

 

“Bro, we don’t need to do this.”

 

“No, we don’t, but if it’ll make you happier, then there’s literally no reason not to. So climb aboard.”

 

Sometimes, the machinations of Ransom’s mind are so transparent it’s like there’s a window directly Ransom’s brain where he can see the little gears clicking and clacking against one another. He can _hear_ the whirring. In this moment, Ransom’s mind is practically humming and clanking audibly. But he knows to give it time, so he waits patiently. Finally, as if some gear has finally fallen into place, Ransom stands up, strips off his shirt and shoulder pads, and clambers onto the firm padding of the table. They’re both kind of disgusting, rank from hockey gear and sweat, but Ransom doesn’t hesitate to sling an arm around his shoulder.

 

It’s a testament to their relationship that Jake doesn’t even blink when he returns with the news that Holster has both the rest of the day and all of tomorrow off from practice, with a check-in Wednesday morning. He also tells Ransom to head home for the day as well.

 

They each shower quickly, though he’s still moving a tad gingerly. Wordlessly, Ransom snags Holster’s backpack and heaves it over his shoulder. His determined look stifles any protest, and if Holster’s being honest, the relief is welcome. He’s definitely taking another Advil and claiming the Haus heating pad for the night.

 

They’re both settled on the couch when the rest of the team pours in after practice. Dex approaches with trepidation.

 

“Holster, man, I am so sorry—

 

“Save it, ginger,” he says, cutting off this conversation before it can begin. “It’s totally cool. I mean, they think I’ll live to see another day, but either way, I’ve lived a good life.” He coughs and clutches his ribcage in mock anguish.

 

Dex flushes. “If there’s anything I can…”

 

“Well, if you feel like making it up to me that much, I do have a p-set for my logic class which you could totally—ow, fuck!” He glares at Ransom, who’s just elbowed him none-to-gently in the side (his unbruised one, fortunately). “Which you could totally help with by grabbing me a Gatorade from the fridge.” He turns back to Ransom. “See, I’m reasonable.”

 

“You’re overdramatic, is what you are,” says Ransom exasperatedly, but he sounds more relaxed than he has for the past week.

 

Dex returns with a bottle of yellow Gatorade, so Holster sends him back to get a blue one, and when Dex returns, he spends at least five minutes reassuring Dex that no, he isn’t angry, he really is fine, just sort, and he always has Ransom to watch out for him over the next day or so.

 

After dinner, he snags the couch again, and there he remains until it’s nearly midnight and he’s suddenly far more exhausted than he expected. He finally shuts his laptop, stretches, winces, and makes to get up. A sharp twinge spikes down his entire right side, from shoulder to hip.

 

“Oof,” he grunts. 

 

Ransom glances over from his own work. “You good?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s just…” he makes another attempt, falls back. “Just a little stiff, I think.”

 

Ransom sets aside his notebook and laptop, lurches to his feet, and holds out a hand. “Want some help?”

 

He accepts the hand. “Thanks man.”

 

Ransom trails behind him as he trudges slowly to the attic, making a pit stop in the bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. When he settles into the bottom bunk, though, he doesn’t expect Ransom to settle there with him.

 

“I’ll be fine, Rans,” he says. “You can go back to your work, or go to sleep. Whichever you were planning on doing.”

 

“Actually, I was sort of thinking…” says Ransom, but then he trails off.

 

Ransom’s mahogany complexion doesn’t turn tomato-paste red the way Holster’s will (and definitely not the alarming fire-truck shade only Dex can achieve), but he definitely blushes. Not easily, and it’s a subtle thing, easy to miss, but Holster has his Ransom-meter finely-tuned this week, and Ransom is definitely reddening.

 

Why would Ransom be blushing?

 

“Yeah?” he prompts, because the silence makes his skin itch.

 

Ransom clears his throat. “If I were dating you, I’d probably give you a massage right now. If you wanted.”

 

That statement works hits him a Redbull laced with hot-sauce in the morning (and he is speaking from experience). His droopy eyelids fly open, and he straightens his glasses to ensure that his godawful vision hasn’t suddenly extended to his hearing as well.

 

“I’m sorry, you would what?”

 

“Give you a massage,” Ransom repeats, mumbling. “Never mind, though.” He leans forward to stand.

 

“Hey, not so fast.” He yanks Ransom back down to the bed. Ransom falls without resistance. “I didn’t say no, did I?”

 

“No?” It’s more question than answer.

 

“No, I didn’t.” He places a hand firmly on Ransom’s shoulder, and his hand now apparently doubles as a leech, because Ransom’s posture drains all tension away. “Anything that makes you happy, man. Plus,” he smiles widely, “it’s a free massage.”

 

Ransom settles behind him on the bed, places his hands on Holster’s bare shoulders (he prefers tank tops when sleeping). Then, without any warning, he digs into the muscle just below the neck.

 

It’s practically orgasmic.

 

“Fuck, you’ve got good hands,” he says a minute in, wiggling his eyebrows at absolutely no one. “On and off the ice.”

 

“I’m just glad they’re large enough to work on you,” says Ransom. “Can you imagine if Lardo were doing this? Just based on surface area ratios alone, it’d take twice as long.”

 

He chuckles. “Lardo’s form of a massage, at least for me, would probably just entail kneeling on me for ten minutes. Maybe she’s got something figured out with Shitty.”

 

“Oh, but they’re _not_ dating, of course,” says Ransom. “Lest we forget.”

 

Holster snorts. “Lest we forget.” He pauses to appreciate the thumb Ransom is digging into a knot. “Isn’t that the motto of Quebec or something?”

 

“ _Je me souviens_ ,” says Ransom. “I remember.”

 

“Right, right.” It’s weird having a conversation in this position, with Ransom turning his back into delicious jello with his truly remarkable hand strength. “What a good Canadian you are. I don’t think I even know the motto of New York.”

 

“It’s _excelsior_. ‘Ever upward.’”

 

“God, you’re a nerd.”

 

“Hey, I just had one of those placemats when I was a kid. Map of the US, with the state bird, state motto, state tree. That sort of shit.”

 

“You’re not helping your case here.”

 

“Comes in handy, though.” Ransom pauses in his talking to bury his knuckles into Holster’s shoulder.

 

“Fuck,” he swears.

 

Ransom practically leapfrogs away. “Oh shit, did I hurt you?”

 

“No, no, it’s fine.” He doesn’t want to admit it, but he already misses the warm pressure of Ransom’s hands. “Just hit a good spot. I’ll tell you if something actually hurts, like ooh, yeah, right there.”

 

Ransom has placed his entire palm just above Holster’s hip. Without further instruction, Ransom lifts the edge of the tank top, says nothing.

 

“All good?”

 

“You’re, uh, colorful,” says Ransom. Holster hears him swallow hard. “I should have warned you. You were counting on it.”

 

Holster twists around to face Ransom. “We are not having this conversation again.”

 

“We haven’t had it.”

 

“I had it with Dex, and you were sitting right there,” he counters. “Either way, we’re not having it right now.”

 

Ransom’s still tense, and Holster hates it. Hates that his friend could ever hold himself responsible for even an ounce of negativity in Holster’s life when, quite frankly, Holster’s not sure he would have made it through college with Ransom’s friendship.

 

“Hey,” he says softly, lifting Ransom’s chin. “Hey. If we were dating right now, what would you do?”

 

Ransom bites his lip. “If we were dating right now, I’d kiss you.”

 

Holster kisses him. He doesn’t linger too long, just enough time to feel Ransom relax and his own cheeks flush. When he pulls away, he says, “There. Now you have something to write about in that journal of yours. Completely honest.”

 

Ransom nods. “I think I’m going to finish some work now.”

 

“See you in the morning, Rans.”

 

He’s asleep not five minutes after Ransom shuts off the lights, the scent of Ransom’s lotion still buried in his skin.

 

 

 

The next morning, in place of practice, he writes in the study journal. The whole Haus is empty, with just him left to rest and recuperate. He forgot to write in it the night before, so it’s good to have the time now instead.

 

Today’s question pertains to the future. So far, most of the questions he’s supposed to answer are relatively mundane (“What are your plans next weekend? Are you planning next weekend with your partner?” To which, the answer is almost always yes), but today, the question is: “If or when experiencing anxiety about the future, does thinking about your partner increase or decrease this anxiety?”

 

He hasn’t actually fully discussed his plans with Ransom, but he’s applied to jobs in every major city where Holster might wind up for med school. He definitely has some strong preferences for certain cities (and a strong distaste for Cleveland), but he mostly figures he would follow Ransom to Boston, where Ransom would be at Harvard Medical School. Distaste for the Ivies aside, Harvard is the top school, and he has no doubt that Ransom will go to the best possible school there is. And sure, applying to that many jobs is stressful, but the thought of having Ransom with him more than compensates for any of that stress.

 

“Guess that means it reduces anxiety,” he mutters aloud, and scribbles the gist of his thought down, along with a brief summary of what happened yesterday between him and Ransom. As he’s writing, he realizes that he hasn’t needed to lie, not once, right down to the goodnight kiss. And he has to admit, the honesty is refreshing. Maybe Ransom is rubbing off on him more than he realized.

 

When Ransom returns to the attic still damp from his post-practice shower, he’s also sporting a bowl (illicitly obtained from the dining hall) full of freshly peeled hardboiled eggs.

 

“God, I love you,” moans Holster as he shoves one of the eggs in his mouth. “I can’t believe you peeled them for me.”

 

Ransom shrugs. “Needed something to do with my hands at breakfast.”

 

Whatever. Ransom’s random act of kindness is definitely going in the journal. Speaking of which…

 

“You know,” he says, speaking around his second hardboiled egg, “I think you were on to something.”

 

“With what?” asks Ransom, somewhat absentmindedly. He’s already two moves into his morning stretching routine, entering autopilot mode.

 

“With this whole honesty thing. Or, sort of honesty,” he clarifies. “I was writing in that journal, and I don’t know, it was nice to not have to make shit up.”

 

Ransom pauses halfway into a hamstring stretch. “Oh yeah?”

 

“Yeah dude,” he says. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, if it helps you with the whole ethics thing, let’s keep doing it.”

 

Ransom narrows his eyes. “And what, precisely, do you mean by ‘it?’”

 

He gesticulates aimlessly. “I don’t know, that whole, ‘if we were dating thing.’ Like, a few times a day or some shit. That way we don’t have to make up things for the journal.” When Ransom doesn’t respond. “We don’t have to, though, of course. I’m just trying to make things easier for you here.”

 

Ransom pushes his legs out into a near split. Damn, he’s really improved his flexibility, thinks Holster, but then Ransom speaks, yanking him back to the present.

 

“Sure,” says Ransom finally, pulling his body back to normal. He meets Holster’s gaze with deep, oak-brown eyes, and for some reason, Holster feels like he’s just noticing that they’re dappled like a forest floor in the right light. He’s not sure what to make of this new information, but if Ransom’s agreeing to the new plan, he can set it aside for now.

 

“Swawesome,” he says. “So, maybe the hardboiled eggs count as one thing. One thing that we do for each other each day.”

 

“Oh,” says Ransom. “Then what are you going to do for me today? If you were dating me?”

 

Holster considers the question. He’s had a few relationships, nothing serious though, and nothing remotely permanent since beginning college. He feels like he might be a bit out of practice. But really, this is Ransom, not just some random chick he asked out yesterday. He knows Ransom, knows what he needs.

 

“I’d pick up some of that oolong tea you really like from murder Stop & Shop,” he says, the idea dawning on his as the words tumble from his mouth. “And then I’d make some for you tonight. You always say you want to cut back on your caffeine, but you also prefer drinking something when you’re studying.”

 

Ransom leans back onto his haunches, lifts his arms high in a deep stretch. “Wow, Holtzy, that’s uh…that’s really thoughtful.”

 

“I’ve got the extra time without afternoon practice today,” says Holster. “Might as well use it.”

 

“Still,” says Ransom, and without warning, he leans over to press a kiss to Holster’s cheek with a wry grin. “If we were dating, I’d be pretty pleased.”

 

“If we were dating,” says Holster, “I’d say, damn right, you should be.”

 

 

 

It becomes their thing, this whole, “if I were dating you.” After two weeks, the biggest takeaway from the experience is that Ransom makes a fantastic boyfriend. Because they’re not actually dating, they’re not having sex (which he’s also sure Ransom would be fantastic at), but for pretty much everything else, he finds himself thoroughly enjoying the Justin Oluransi Boyfriend Experience™. Ransom is already a thoughtful, amazing friend who brings him ten hardboiled eggs in the morning if he misses breakfast, but boyfriend-Ransom is on a whole other level. It’s not even grand, dramatic gestures, but rather little actions which tip the balance of their relationship into something more.

 

For example, that whole massage? Not a one-time thing. Even after the ache of Dex’s hit has faded, Ransom still notices if he’s stiff or sore from practice. Sometimes he’ll offer a quick massage, other times he just brings over an ice pack or heating pad. He’ll also make an extra cup of tea or coffee at night, bring it to the table or the attic, wherever they’re studying for the moment. And sometimes, just before bed, when Holster asks, “If we were dating, what would you do?” Ransom will lean over and kiss him. “That’s what I would do,” he says, and sometimes the sincerity in his eyes doesn’t so much tug on his heartstrings as yank them from side to side.

 

During one of their biweekly movie nights (Ransom’s turn to pick, unfortunately), a draft of cold air drifts across the attic, causing a brief, involuntary shiver. Without saying a word, Ransom leaves the bed, digs into the bottom of his old trunk, and emerges with the old quilt blanket normally reserved for special occasions. He knows Ransom rarely touches the quilt without thought, since his grandmother gifted it to him before she died. It’s one of Ransom’s most personal, valued possessions

 

“You know, we don’t have to use this for a random movie night,” he says as Ransom returns to the bed. “We could just grab that big fluffy blanket from the closet.”

 

Ransom gently sets the cloth over both their laps, leans into Holster’s body to provide his furnace-like heat. “It’s still too warm for that blanket, plus, you know, if we were dating,” he says, and doesn’t finish the thought, nor does he discuss it at all throughout the rest of the movie. Holster doesn’t touch the subject again. If Ransom is happy, then so is he.

 

And he assumes Ransom is happy. He’s relaxed a little with his Ransommeter ever since Ransom himself seemed to chill, and right now, he’s definitely exuding warm, satisfied vibes. But there’s something there that he senses, like a little blip in the radar, which has him pause, squint through his glasses at Ransom’s face.

 

Ransom, sensing the weight of his gaze, twists. “If you don’t watch this movie, it’s my turn to pick again next week he says.” Beneath the gentle teasing lies a tone of absolute, deadly sincerity, so Holster returns his attention to the movie, the blip already long forgotten as Ransom leans his head into the juncture of neck and shoulder just above the blanket.

 

If he is happy, then so must be Ransom.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Holster figures it out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (second try--having some issues before). Thanks so much for your lovely reviews and patience. It's great to see that others appreciate these two dorks as much as I do!

After a month, they trudge back to the lab for an in person check with Clara. The questions they answer each night have become increasingly more forward thinking, and he thinks he’s starting to understand the purpose of the whole experiment. How do thoughts and experiences with his “partner” influence his thoughts about the future? Each night, they record approximate time spent in each other’s company, daily interactions, and then answer the question. It’s almost routine at this point, just like their little “if we were dating” actions.

 

“Wow,” says Clara, snapping one of their journals shut. “You two really spend a lot of time together.”

 

“More than average?” asks Ransom.

 

“Without a doubt,” says Clara. “I mean, the couples in the study all live together like you, but most people work at different places, have slightly different schedules. I guess with all the time spent together on the hockey team, your schedules are just more aligned.” She fusses with her glasses, and Holster’s finger itch to do the same, but one of his hands is being firmly held by Ransom. “It’s great to see that two people can spend so much time together without ever getting bored, you know? Not that I’m here to comment on your relationship, that is.”

 

Holster squeezes Ransom’s hand. “What can I say, this guy just knows how to keep me entertained.”

 

“Right,” she says. “Well, you guys are officially halfway through the study. I know the holidays might be a little different in terms of the whole living situation, especially with you both in undergrad, but the same principle still applies. Time on the phone still counts as time together.”

 

“Eh,” he says. “We’re splitting the holidays again. It helps that my family doesn’t do Christmas, you know. So I get the full Oluransi holiday treatment. I hope I get to taste your aunt’s stew again.”

 

“Which aunt?” asks Ransom, curiously.

 

“How should I know? Last time I was there, there were like fifteen women and you called nearly half of them auntie! I’ll know once I taste it.”

 

Clara chuckles at their interaction, and a rare sensation of self-awareness sweeps over him. They must really appear like a couple, talking about each other’s families with such familiarity. But it’s not a lie; Holster has a standing invitation to all Oluransi family events (“if you’re ever in the area, you must come by, even without Justin,” Mrs. Oluransi had told him one time), and Holster’s 95% certain than two of his three younger sisters prefer Ransom to him.

 

“What I’m saying,” says Holster, clearing his throat, “is that I think we’ll be okay.”

 

“Great,” chirps Clara, and she sends them both on their way.

 

They release hands once they exit the room, but Holster can still feel the tension vibrating off of Ransom. It’s mid-reading period right now, and this meeting was a study break as much as anything else. Once they hit the outdoors, Ransom shies away, trying to head to his lab.

 

“Hey, man, why don’t you take a break?” he says.

 

Ransom shakes his head. “Nah, got way too much to do.”

 

“Dude, I know you didn’t sleep last night,” he says.

 

Ransom freezes, and his eyes shift from side to side. “How did you know that?”

 

Holster sighs. “Because I heard you sneak out after the lights were off, and you’re jittery, which means you’ve had two extra cups of coffee, which you only do when you don’t sleep.”

 

Ransom stares.

 

“I know you too well, man,” he says. “Just take the L and take a break.”

 

But Ransom isn’t having any of it. The insomnia-and-caffeine-induced jitters have only increased in tempo, and the shaking is broaching Holster’s threshold of tolerance. If he doesn’t act soon, a full blown-panic attack will be sweeping in any moment now.

 

“Hey, hey, Rans, hey, Justin,” he says, pulling Ransom in for an embrace. He extends his full body around Ransom, folds his long wingspan into a cocoon designed to engulf and shield his friend from the world. The shaking still shoots vibrations through his body, and Ransom’s breath fogs quick and unsteady against his neck. “I got you. I got you.”

 

He holds Ransom until their breathing rhythms match, until Ransom’s heartbeat isn’t pounding against his chest like a Warhammer. He holds him until the wind has whipped his back into a tundra, but Ransom’s warmth has left his chest a warm oasis.

 

“If we were dating,” whispers Ransom against his neck, and Holster doesn’t hesitate to press a kiss to the corner of Ransom’s jaw, scraping his lips against the stubble.

 

“If we were dating,” agrees Holster.

 

They stand there, clutching each other, until at last Ransom pulls away. “I really do have to go. I wouldn’t if I didn’t need this.”

 

Holster nods, kisses Ransom quickly on the lips. “I know. Just—take care of yourself, all right? I don’t want to be the one explaining to your mother why I’m lugging a husk back to Toronto for Christmas. I know she likes me, but I think there are limits.”

 

Ransom nods, and the gray wool hat perched atop his head bobs comically. So Holster makes his way back to the Haus, slowly, his mind still firmly attached to Ransom’s side. An SUV almost plows him down as he crosses the street, but even a near-death experience isn’t sufficient to fully rouse him from his melancholy.

 

The sight of Lardo and Bitty, sitting on the couch with matched expressions of consternation, is.

 

“Sup?” he says to them casually, shucking off his outerwear and backpack.

 

Lardo slaps a ruler against her palm, and he thinks that in another life, she would have made a terrifying Catholic schoolteacher.

 

“Oh, things are going pretty normal,” she says, the lightness of her tone belying the deep skepticism on her face. “What about you Bitty?”

 

“Well, I was having a perfectly normal day,” says Bitty. “When imagine my surprise, as I’m passing by on my way back from my psych-stats office hours, I see you and Ransom.”

 

Shit. Whatever their plan was, this was not a part of it. No one from the team was ever supposed to be involved. “What did you see?” he ventures cautiously.

 

“Nothing much,” says Bitty. “Just the two of you. Kissing.”

 

“I almost didn’t believe him,” says Lardo, “but then I remembered a few nights ago, I thought I glimpsed something similar. I was so exhausted, I thought I was dreaming, until Bitty here reports that not only was I not dreaming, but you two are out and kissing in _public_.”

 

“And it’s fine if you two don’t want to tell people about whatever it is you’re doing,” says Bitty, earnestly. “It’s just, quite frankly, we’re a little offended you’re fine with everyone on the street knowing before you told us. What if one of the lacrosse players had seen you? One of the Chads might have known before us!”

 

He throws up his hands. “Okay, listen, I can explain.”

 

“I should hope so,” remarks Lardo darkly.

 

“Alright, peons,” he says. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. What Rans and I do is, indeed, none of your business. So let’s remember that everything I’m telling you is an act of great generosity.” Lardo rolls her eyes. “ _So_ , Rans and I aren’t actually dating. Well, we’re pretending to, but it’s for money. And the kissing thing helps Rans’ delicate little moral compass feel better about whatever untruths we’re telling.”

 

Lardo and Bitty exchange a profound look. Finally, Bitty speaks. “That doesn’t explain anything,” he says, sounding particularly peeved.

 

“We’re pretending to date for this psych study, which pays like three hundred bucks but requires you to be in a committed monogamous relationship. And because Rans doesn’t like to lie, even in the little journal where literally no one will ever know the difference, we do things to pretend we’re dating from time to time. Like, now he can say we kissed today without having to make shit up.” Holster places his hands on his hips, looks down at his two friends with as much imposing force as he can muster. “There, does that satisfy your curiosity?”

 

Lardo and Bitty turn to each other, mouths agape, eyes flickering in silent communication. Lardo is somehow selected as the one to speak amidst their silent communication, and she fixes Holster with an expression of genuine incredulity he never expected to see cross her sarcastic little face.

 

“That is, without a doubt, the _stupidest_ thing I have heard in my entire time here at Samwell, and yes,” she adds, sensing Holster’s reply, “that includes Shitty’s new tub juice recipe from our frog year.” The incredulity morphs into outrage. “What are you expecting to come of this?”

 

Holster shrugs. “Money, presumably.”

 

“And you don’t think that _dating_ your best friend is going to have any long-term consequences?”

 

“Look,” he says, hackles rising, “it’s not like we have to change that much. The only thing different is the kissing, and even that isn’t entirely new to us.”

 

Bitty chokes, and Lardo has to pound him on the back.

 

“It’s just for another few weeks,” he says. “Until early next semester. Then back to normal. We’re perfectly capable of handling this like adults, thanks very much. I’m two years wiser than both of you young’uns. Kissing doesn’t have to mean anything.”

 

“Right,” says Lardo. “And Shitty and I are just screwing around.”

 

Holster’s honestly not sure how to respond to Lardo—this is the most she’s ever revealed about what arrangement she and Shitty share. But he’s a little offended that Bitty and Lardo don’t trust him and Ransom to handle their own relationship, especially when they’ve never required any outside interference before.

 

“We’re fine, Lardo,” he says. “Kissing is kissing. It doesn’t mean we’re falling in love.”

 

That’s what he tells himself later that night, when Ransom returns from lab still flustered, though fortunately no in the midst of a full-blown anxiety attack. Holster pulls him into a hug anyways, allows his kiss to linger as long as it must before Ransom sighs and relaxes.

 

“If we were dating,” he adds, as an afterthought.

 

“If we were dating,” says Ransom softly.

 

 

 

Christmas passes as normal, just like he and Ransom told Clara. He manages to correctly remember 90% of Ransom’s relatives’ names by the end of the holiday dinner (two are twins, which he really feels he should get a pass on). Then, with a heartfelt farewell to both of them, Ransom’s family sends them on their way to Buffalo just in time for New Year’s.

 

Buffalo is quiet when they arrive. All of Holster’s friends from high school have graduate from college (a consequence of the years he spent in juniors before attending Samwell), and all of his friends from juniors are scattered across the States. The nearest contact is probably in New York City, and he’s certainly not expecting Isaac to abandon New York City for a four hour drive and the wall of snow awaiting them in near the border.

 

In lieu of a party (there’ll be a kegster when they return to Samwell, no doubt), Holster shoves Ransom into a car and heads for the backwoods of western New York.

 

“Where are we going?” inquires Ransom, half an hour into the drive.

 

“My buddy’s place,” says Holster, eyes still glued to the road. The plowing is uneven at best this far off the main roads, and he needs to concentrate.

 

“I thought you said it was going to be the two of us?”

 

“Oh, he’s in California,” says Holster. “Sorry, I just asked him if we could use his barn for the evening. All his folks are out there visiting, but when I was in high school, we always used to do New Year’s Eve here. I don’t know, I know it’s not one of those swawesome parties you’d go to in Toronto, but, you know, it’s my senior year of college and I just sort of thought…”

 

“One last time,” says Ransom, reading his mind, because of course. Ransom always understands him. “It sounds perfect.”

 

“And when I say barn, you know, like it is a barn, but there’s also a TV and gaming system set up there, plus a bunch of other random shit. It’s furnished, sort of. Not completely, but it won’t be us and the cows.”

 

Ransom laughs. “That would definitely be a new one for me.”

 

“Not for me,” mutters Holster, thinking back to seventh grade. He flicks his gaze over to Ransom’s curious eyes and shakes his head. “I’ll tell you once we’re out there.”

 

Another twenty minutes later and they’ve arrived. Down a dirt road lies a weather-beaten, unlit house half buried in piles of snow. Another twenty feet back is the barn, the one scrawled with graffiti and signs and random words which Holster and Mikey and the three other boys he used to hang with found particularly amusing that year. He can’t see it with just the headlights, but somewhere, his name is scrawled in giant purple letters, surrounded by the outline of an even more giant dick. They weren’t exactly the most mature fifteen year olds. But there’s also a heart permanently scratched into the barn’s side, commemorating his crush on Katie Borgman who had been both the most beautiful girl in high school and the one least impressed by his antics.

 

Even more than his childhood bedroom, this barn feels like it contains his youth and his memories. Bringing Ransom here is no small act.

 

“Well, here we are,” he says, bringing the car to a full stop. He fishes out his old spare key, the one Mikey had given him years ago. “Our celebration barn.”

 

The furnishing hasn’t changed at all in the past six years. Beyond the wood flooring, the mini-fridge, and the power strip connected to both the generator and the TV and gaming consoles, the barn is still, well, a barn. A couple mattresses lie in the corner, and there’s another one hiding in the loft, he knows. Ransom lugs in the second bag of alcohol, complete with several full handles of liquor as well as two six packs of those beers Ransom weirdly likes. It might be the two of them, but it is still New Year’s.

 

“Dude, swawesome,” says Ransom. “This place is sick.”

 

“Right?” he says. He doesn’t hesitate to crack open one of the beers and set it down on the little coffee table beside two bean bags facing the TV. “So, Mario Cart or movie?”

 

By the time they’ve finished several rousing contests and are two thirds of the way into Lord of the Rings (only the first movie), Holster’s hands feel like oven mitts as he fumbles for the popcorn over the edges of his blankets. He knows the movie by heart, which is good, because if he didn’t, he sure as well wouldn’t be absorbing too much information. Ransom is also laughing too loudly at the jokes in the movie, and his quips don’t come as easily, stumble over his tongue.

 

In short, the alcohol is working, even on their impressive tolerances.

 

A gentle elbow to the side rouses him from his reverie.

 

“You got a bathroom here?” asks Ransom, eyebrow quirked upwards.

 

“The great outdoors,” says Holster. “Just, uh, I got a bottle of Purell in the bag and some TP if you really need it. But the house is locked, and I only got a key to the barn, so…”

 

“No, I got it,” says Ransom, and he heaves himself to his feet. The movie keeps playing, and now the fellowship is meeting Galadriel for the first time, and his attention wanders back to the plot. It’s not until after Galadriel’s brief dalliance with the ring’s power that he realizes Ransom still hasn’t returned.

 

He probably got lost. No sense of direction in that man.

 

When swings open the back door, though, he immediately finds Ransom, decidedly un-lost and staring up at the skies, directly into the clear, cloudless night, and oh.

 

Sometimes he forgets that in the grand scheme, none of this matters, not compared with the immensity above them. None of it matters, and yet all of it does, and nothing more so than the man before him.

 

He makes his way through the snow to stand next to Ransom, slings his arm over Ransom’s shoulder. His watch beeps, midnight of the new year.

 

“It’s New Year’s Eve,” he says, suddenly. “You should kiss me.”

 

Ransom turns and kisses him, quick and gentle, then turns his gaze back to the stars.

 

“Is that all?” he asks. “Rans, is that how you kiss all your dates?”

 

“If I were dating you,” says Ransom, and he heaves out a deep breath, one which coagulates in the air like an English fog. “If I were dating you, I wouldn’t let you go to bed without kissing you properly.”

 

“Are you saying that kiss before wasn’t proper?” he asks, a little teasing.

 

Ransom shakes his head, which Holster feels more than sees, so dark is night and the wall of the barn behind him. But he doesn’t need to see what happens next to understand. Ransom is kissing him, but not in the way they’ve kissed before—chaste, firm, but without any passion—or even in the way they made out during their sloppy make-out session more than a year ago, which hadn’t lacked passion but rather any real purpose. For the first time, he is experiencing everything which Ransom has to offer, and, well…

 

He was not prepared.

 

Ransom leverages all of his strength to slam him against the barn wall, where bundles his fists in the lapels of Holster’s coat and practically attacks him. Ransom kisses him with every inch of his body, pressing thigh against thigh, chest against chest, lips against lips. And Holster was not prepared for the rush of heat which floods his entire body before pooling in his lower body. Then Ransom shifts his hands, and he’s clutching Holster’s face and neck like they might disappear if for one second he breaks contact.

 

He thought he’d been receiving the full Justin Oluransi boyfriend experience, but boy had he been wrong.

 

For a minute, he’s too stunned to do anything but follow Ransom’s lead. And why shouldn’t he? Ransom is gorgeous, easily one of the top five most beautiful people he’s seen, and Ransom’s skin is like a cloud, smooth and soft as their faces collide, and Ransom smells like vanilla, which hadn’t always been his favorite scent but after years of living with Ransom and his vanilla cologne, somehow became something he needed. And then Ransom moves his lips further down his jaw, further and further until he reaches Holster’s ear and bites and _fuck_ , how did Ransom know he’s sensitive there? And how does Ransom know precisely where to place his hands on his hips (just above the jut of bone) when he moves them down his body, lower and lower, until he’s pressing in just the spot which turns Holster’s knees to jelly and his entire brain to the consistency of fine gruel?

 

“Rans,” he gasps. “Justin, buddy, what are you…”

 

Ransom silences him with his mouth, but leaves his hands trailing lower and lower until there’s absolutely no mistaking his intentions.

 

He pulls away. It’s too sudden, too much, and just five minutes ago the most they’d ever done was a sloppy makeout in the attic after a kegster, and now Ransom appears to be attempting a handjob in the wilds of western New York, and as much as Holster’s body is screaming at him to just accept what’s being offered and to push all thought aside for later, he knows he can’t fuck this up. This is Ransom, the single most important person in his life bar none, and he’s not willing to let a rash New Year’s decision push them past a point of no return.

 

Ransom reacts to his pulling away by kneeling, and Holster realizes this attempted handjob is about to become an attempted blowjob, surrounded by ancient oaks and fresh snow, so using his giant, oversized hands, he places his palm on Ransom’s cheek, halting him mid-lean.

 

“Rans, what are you doing?”

 

Ransom’s eyes gleam in the moonlight, and fuck if he isn’t at least top three in the most beautiful people at this moment.

 

“If we were dating, this is what I’d do,” says Ransom.

 

“But..” he stutters out, because Ransom has begun to unbutton his jeans. “But Rans, it’s over now, and we’re not actually dating.”

 

“No,” says Ransom, but doesn’t hesitate to continue unzipping Holster’s fly. “We’re not. But I want to do this. Whether we’re dating or not.”

 

Holster doesn’t stop Ransom as he yanks down his jeans, then hooks his fingers into the elastics of his boxers. The whole situation screams that he must be dreaming, that maybe he’s drunker than he actually is, that the surreal cascade of moonlight drenching Ransom from behind shouldn’t actually exist. Ransom pulls down his boxers, and between one breath and the next, he feels the world shift, like what they’re about to do will send them careening off into galaxy, untethered by any gravity or grounding in reality.

 

Ransom meets his gaze with sincerity and hope so desperate it almost shocks him back into reality. Almost.

 

“Promise me you’ll remember,” says Ransom. “Please, promise me, Adam.”

 

Holster doesn’t know what on earth Ransom is talking about. “Of course, I’ll remember,” he says. “Why would I ever forget?”

 

Then Ransom puts his mouth on him and he couldn’t even tell you his own name.

 

 

 

A draft of frigid air awakens him the next morning. He shivers and instinctually clutches at the first source of warmth his body recognizes. The sensation he meets is softer than he expects, softer than even a blanket or a pillow he expected. The scent of vanilla wafts over him, and he snuggles even closer to the soft texture exuding that delightful heat.

 

Said heat source then twitches, snuggles back.

 

His eyes fly open.

 

“Rans?’ he says, staring at the half-lidded eyes of one Justin Oluransi. Said Justin smiles sleepily at him, blinking slowly and burrowing his head into a pillow.

 

“Morning,” says Ransom.

 

The cool air washing over him brings a sense of clarity, or at least alertness. With this renewed awareness comes memory, and a full recollection of the events the night before.

 

There are about eight different paths he could take here, and he’s unsure of where any of them will lead.

 

“Justin,” he says softly, and Ransom blinks owlishly. “Hey, how much do you remember of last night?” He’s pretty sure Ransom was far drunker than him, but there’s a whole spectrum between drunk and blackout, and he’s not certain where Ransom fell. Or if it had changed.

 

A rare, guarded expression overtakes Ransom’s face. “Everything, I think. You?”

 

Ransom’s voice cracks on that last word, and Holster thinks back to Ransom last night. “Promise me you’ll remember,” he’d said. “Please, promise me, Adam.”

 

“Yeah, I remember,” he says. “I remember everything.”

 

He’s not sure what he’s expecting, but Ransom’s shaky exhale of utter relief certainly wasn’t under his list of possibilities.

 

“Um, just to be clear,” says Holster, “you remember everything that happened and you’re…you’re fine with it, right? Because, looking back, I have no idea if maybe you were drunker than I thought you were—and I’m usually pretty good at telling—but it was hard to keep my head on straight when you were kissing me like _that_.” He shakes his head. “Jesus, where did that come from?”

 

He realizes now that they’re lying on the old, beat-up mattress in the corner of the barn and that, beneath the blankets, he is entirely naked. Based on the surface area of skin nestling against him, he guesses that Ransom is too.

 

Overall, it’s not the weirdest situation he’s awoken to (See: Mardi Gras kegster, freshman year), but it’s not that far off.

 

The guarded hesitation still hasn’t left Ransom’s voice. “Dunno, man. Just going on instinct, I guess. I hope it wasn’t bad.”

 

“Bad?” he sputters. “Holy fuck, I was surprised, but not because it was _bad_. I just had literally no idea you knew how to give a blowjob. Definitely not bad.”

 

“Does that mean it was good?”

 

“Fuck yeah,” he says. “Don’t get me wrong, I still have no idea what was happening, but I feel like I made it pretty clear last night that I was enjoying it.”

 

Ransom kisses him. Not as aggressively as the night before—for one, there’s no wall to slam him against, only open air—but slowly, deliberately, and filled with the same purpose. Ransom’s fingers grab at his ass, press into that spot just above his hipbone, and if they don’t stop soon, he might just need a repeat of what happened last night.

 

Thing is, he’s still not sure of what happened. Or why it happened, to be more specific.

 

He breaks away, and this time he’s not backing down until he gets an explanation.

 

“Rans,” he says, voice tight. “Rans, you can’t just do this to me.”

 

“Can’t I?” asks Ransom.

 

He pushes his whole body to the side, even though his skin immediately mourns the loss of the heat. But he can’t have this conversation with Ransom while their naked bodies are pressed against each other.

 

“Not without some discussion.”

 

“Since when did you need to talk before hooking up?” says Ransom, which irks Holster, even if it’s true.

 

“Since the person I’m hooking up with is my best friend,” he exclaims. “Believe me, I’m as surprised as you are that I’m the one asking for some forethought here.”

 

“Look, I just wanted to see what it would be like,” says Ransom. He rolls over, tilts his head towards the wide barn ceiling. “Just for once.”

 

One of the things Holster least understands about his friend (or with which he has the least amount of personal experience) is the swing between moods. Holster may hate most people and complain about everything from sitcoms to the texture of dining hall hot sauce at a moment’s notice, but at least he’s _always_ those things. Ransom, though, Ransom is all peaks and valleys. When he’s happy, his elation and zest for life are contagious and pure and entirely straightforward, but then he’ll flip to anxiety, leaving behind no trace of his previous self.

 

Holster’s not really sure how to classify Ransom’s current state. Whatever it is, it’s certainly devoid of the wholehearted, single-minded devotion he loves in his friend.

 

“What’s going on, man?” he asks. “Look, I know something’s up, and you’re freaking me out a little here.”

 

“Well, soon we won’t have to be ‘dating’ anymore, so it doesn’t matter,” says Ransom. “We don’t have to pretend for me anymore. And we don’t have to kiss or anything like that.”

 

“If that’s what you want,” he says.

 

Ransom doesn’t speak, just stares up at the barn ceiling. There’s an old scarf hanging precariously off one of the rafters. It’s been stuck there for years, snagged on a rusted nail, but one of these days, either the fabric or the nail or even the wood is going to give way. He wonders if the person who caught their scarf on that hook will even know of its return to earth.

 

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you,” he says at last, breaking the silence. “Not everything has to be so complicated.” He sits up, ignores the blast of icy wind against his bare chest. “I’m going to get some breakfast. Won’t take more than twenty minutes.”

 

He finds his clothes crumpled in a pile not ten feet from the mattress. Dust cakes his jeans, and he knows his hair must be a bird’s nest of grease and unkempt tufts, but whatever. He needs to get out, get some air, and shove some unholy combination of grease and carbohydrates manufactured with the specific backwoods-of-Buffalo oil overlay no other diner has ever managed to replicate. The lady at Kelly’s, a matronly woman with a full-on perm, passes more than a few looks of judgement over his disheveled appearance as he enters through the door.

 

“You okay, hon?” she asks, her assessing eyes still trying to decide if he’s a menace or in desperate need of help.

 

“Just hungry,” he says, flashing her a quick smile. “Was hoping for one of your breakfast burritos. Extra sausage”

 

“Whatever you say,” she says, and he takes his seat at one of the empty booths, pours himself a cup of coffee from the pot once she brings it over, and mulls.

 

What happened last night had felt…exhilarating, and also familiar. Like Ransom had known exactly where and what he needed, like his fingers knew how they burned their way through his skin, and how his mouth, well, that was an entirely different story.

 

And he’d done all of this while still being Ransom, while still being his best friend and the best person in the entire world, in Holster’s humble yet nevertheless the correct opinion. The desire-filled gaze which had stolen all the moisture from his mouth didn’t belong to the Ransom he understood, the Ransom who cracked crude jokes with him about Zimmerman’s ass whenever the mood needed lightening on a bad roadie or stole extra ranch packets from Jerry’s for the condiment bin in their room, since they would always run out.

 

But now his best friend is also the same guy who gave him not just a kiss but a blow job, and a blow job they’d both enjoyed. _Really_ enjoyed. And his best friend is also the guy who told him it didn’t matter.

 

So it doesn’t have to matter, he thinks. He eats his breakfast burrito when Kelly serves it to him, doesn’t blink when he asks for two to go. When he steps outside, he the brisk wind is the closest to a hangover cure he’s ever found, restoring his equilibrium and his sanity. He just needs to rely on that little Ransom-meter of his when he returns.

 

When he returns, Ransom is fully dressed and sitting on the mattress. He’s folded the comforter into a neat square, shoved the space-heater directly in front of him so he can hold his hands above it.

 

Holster tosses him one of the breakfast burritos. “Here, from Kelly’s.”

 

Ransom catches the burrito, but doesn’t move to open it. “Holster,” he says, “Adam, I…”

 

Holster allows him a minute before intervening. “Yes?”

 

Ransom inhales a shaky breath and says, “Let’s just, you know, forget about last night. It doesn’t need to change anything.”

 

The statement leaves him oddly disappointed. He’s not sure what he expect, but it feels anticlimactic, like _something_ should have come of last night But if this is what Ransom needs—and the Ransom-meter isn’t flaring or ticking away in corner—and if it’s what he wants, then he’s not going to force the issue. “If it makes you happy,” he says. “That’s all that matters.”

 

Ransom nods, and again, the relief which washes over him is palpable and alarming in its intensity. But then Ransom digs into his breakfast burrito, moans with pleasure, and says, “Never tell Bitty or my mother, but this is the happiest food has ever made me.”

 

“Bro,” he says, “you take that to you grave. Not even God could help you then.”

 

 

 

When they arrive back at school, they only have a week left of the study, but it feels like the experiment is already over. Ransom hasn’t uttered the phrase “if we were dating” since that night in the barn, and Holster hasn’t pushed him. The whole purpose of that little exchange was to assuage Ransom’s concerns anyways. And somehow, for some reason, Holster is…disappointed. He misses their little kisses, the way Ransom would curl into his side during sitcom marathons, the constant physical reassurance of Ransom’s body and Ransom’s presence.

 

It’s not until he’s actively writing in the study journal during the last night (question: in what location do you see yourself living in five years? Do you know if your partner’s preferences align with yours?) that he realizes that something has changed, despite Ransom’s wishes. Because his instinctive answer to that questions was of course, Ransom’s preferences matter. In five years, Ransom would be in residency, and Holster would follow him there, just like he would follow him to med school.

 

There’s no doubt in his mind that he will do this. He can’t envision another person guiding his decision, no future girlfriend, no future partner. Just Ransom. The idea of having someone else in his life seems ludicrous. Why would he need something more? Especially if Ransom is capable of what he did back at the barn.

 

Or what he’d offered to do the year before. The memory surges back like a flash flood, drenching him, but now he can recall something similar to barn, only in Ransom’s bedroom in Toronto. Their mouths colliding, Ransom’s hands wandering over his body, asking him if he was okay, if their touch felt good. Until Ransom had whispered, “You’re too drunk, not like this.” And from there the memory blurs again.

 

How had he forgotten this? Is that what Ransom had meant at the barn, pleading with him to remember? God, they’d had (or nearly had) sex twice together, and what, expected things to return to normal?

 

He needs to talk to Ransom.

 

He sprints up to the attic, thundering past a sleepy Chowder, and bursts through the door. Ransom has bent his head over the desk, is scribbling furiously into a notebook. He doesn’t even blink when Holster slams the door.

 

“Ransom, what did you write in your journal tonight?”

 

Ransom halts his scribbling and twists around, his face set in a grimace. “We’re not supposed to talk about this.”

 

“I know, but I’ve already written my piece and I want to know what you think.”

 

Ransom hesitates, taps his pen along the notebook. Finally, he says, “I said I’d be in residency by then, but I hoped you would find a way to be close. That you know what medical school entails and are willing to go along with it.”

 

“Okay,” says Holster, “that’s what I said too. But what would you write if you were being honest?’

 

The grimace deepens. “Man, I don’t know.”

 

“Think about it. I’m serious,” he adds pointedly, addressing Ransoms’ obvious skepticism. “Just freestyle it.”

 

Ransom leans back in his chair. “Well, I wouldn’t expect you to live your life around what I do. Sure, I’d love for you to be close, but I know I can’t ask that of someone. Not unless…” he trails off.

 

“Unless we were dating?” supplies Holster, and Ransom nods.

 

“But like I said,” says Ransom, “that’s too much. Hell, who knows where you’ll be next year? Who knows where I’ll be?”

 

Holster takes a seat on the edge of his bed. “Then what would you say if I told you that you don’t need to ask? That I’m going to do it anyways?”

 

Genuine shock crosses Ransom’s face, and his mouth hangs open for a moment before he gathers himself enough to close it. “You’re what?”

 

“Following you, wherever you go. I’ve applied to jobs in all the places you’re looking at for school. Turns out, finance is pretty universal, and that definitely helps.” Ransom is still gaping. “And I figure, same thing once you’re in residency. As Ransom goes, so goes my nation.”

 

“Um,” says Ransom. “I wouldn’t know what to say. That’s…that’s a lot to process.”

 

“So then what would you do?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“If we were dating, what would you being doing right now?”

 

Ransom inhales shakily. “We’re not dating.”

 

“I know, but I just told you that I might be working in Cleveland next year, if that’s where you end up, so humor me. If we were dating, what would you be doing?”

 

Ransom gulps. “Right now, if we were dating and you just told me that you’d follow me to Cleveland? I’d probably be doing what I did last week at the barn.”

 

Holster spreads his legs provocatively. “Well, I wouldn’t say not to that right now.”

 

Ransom’s face twists. “Holtzy, we’re not dating.”

 

“We could be,” he says, and as he says the words, he knows with as much certainty as he’s known anything, as he knows his own name, that he wants this. “We’ve practically been doing it for the past two months. Hell, we’ve been half-dating for the past three and a half years.”

 

Ransom looks like he’s just taken a bad check, winded, practically doubled over. Like he’s in actual pain. “Please don’t do this to me,” he says. “I can’t do this.”

 

“Can’t do what? Date me?”

 

“No!” says Ransom, and he takes a deep breath, and when he speaks, it’s like something Holster said has broken open the Hoover dam, allowed torrents of emotion and anxiety and whatever else he’s compartmentalized for years to spill over. “No, I can’t _pretend_ to date you. I can’t have this whole ‘if we were dating’ thing, this conditional statement, when I want it to be real. I can’t do it until you decide to fall in love with someone for real, because I can’t deal with being a pity date, something you do to keep me happy. Because if I date you, I want you to be happy too. I don’t want you to do something just for me.”  He puts his head in his hands, muffling his voice. “God, it’s like New Year’s all over again.”

 

Ransom’s tirade blows him away, leaves him clutching to a life raft in the middle of stormy sea. This is not what he expected. “Like New Year’s? This year or last year?”

 

Ransom blanches. “You remember?” he asks softly.

 

Holster nods.

 

“Everything?”

 

He shakes his head. “Just the part where we nearly had sex, and then you told me no.”

 

 Ransom laughs weakly, and says, “Well, we argued, you saying you knew what you wanted. And when I said I loved you too much to do that, you know what you said? You said, ‘I wish I could fall in love with you.’ And then the next morning you said you couldn’t remember any of it.” He shakes his head. “Do you know how much that killed me?”

 

The first emotion which swells within Holster is anger. Anger that Ransom withheld this conversation from him for so long, rage that Ransom had lied for at least a year about his emotions, when he’d thought they’d shared nearly everything together as friends. Fury that Ransom hadn’t trusted him enough, hadn’t trusted their relationship enough.

 

Then a wave of sorrow tempers the anger, sorrow that the person he loves most has been living with this secret for a year. That he thought Holster wouldn’t return his affections, that he thought he needed to hide. That he’d gone along with Holster’s harebrained scheme to make some money, even when it must have been killing him each day.

 

And Ransom is far too beautiful to have such a forlorn, broken look on his face. Far too good to have his heart broken when it never needed to fracture in the first place.

 

Holster crosses the distance between them in two strides, bends over to kiss Ransom. At first, Ransom responds eagerly, instinctively, grabbing him by the shoulders and hauling himself to his feet so that they’re on equal levels. Then Ransom tears the two of them apart, yanking back.

 

“Don’t do it,” he says. “Don’t do it unless you mean it.”

 

Holster pulls him back into another kiss. “Do you think I don’t mean this?” he murmurs. “Do you think this is fake?”

 

“Then why would you have said something before?” asks Ransom, still pulling away. “Why now?”

 

“Maybe because I was drunk out my mind last year and didn’t know what the hell I was talking about. Maybe because I got a taste of what we could have, together, and not just as best friends, but as something more here,” he says. “Because I missed dating you, and because I know when I like something. I liked what happened last week.”

 

“Are you sure?” whispers Ransom. “Are you absolutely sure?”

 

He nods. And he is sure. Because Ransom is a fantastic boyfriend, because Ransom is the best friend he could ever imagine, because he already knows the sex is going to be amazing and he is never in his life going to find a more beautiful person willing to sleep with him. Because he already loves him, and he’s absolutely sure that he will eventually be in love with him, despite what his drunk, asshole personality had believed more than a year ago, before they’d changed. “I’m sure.”

 

He feels the moment Ransom succumbs to him, the moment he surrenders. It’s nearly as good as an orgasm, this knowledge that Ransom is delighting unabashedly in every part of him, the way Ransom kisses him like he is something to be revered. He never expected someone to love him this way, to love his loud, grouchy, oversized, sitcom-loving self, but he’s more than willing to accept what is being offered. Ransom has seen all of him. He knows what he’s getting.

 

The overlay of surrealism when Ransom goes down on him doesn’t fully dissipate, but there’s no denying the physical experience, of the sight of Ransom’s smooth neck and powerful shoulders as he kneels before him. And there’s no denying the flip of his heart as he prepares to do the same.

 

“So, how did the process work for you?” asks Clara the following day. They’re turning in their final study notebooks and picking up their participation checks. If he’s being honest, the money feels secondary to the fresh giddiness which overtakes him whenever he remembers he’s allowed to do things like place his hand on Ransom’s thigh beneath the table. Which is exactly what he’s doing right now.

 

He’s definitely not saying no to the money though.

 

Ransom speaks up. “I think it actually helped us figure out a few things. Just, you know, having to articulate what we were thinking about the future.”

 

Clara smiles brightly. “I’m glad to hear that. It’s wonderful to see two undergrads who are so committed to each other too.”

 

Holster squeezes Ransom’s thigh. “What can I say? When you know, you know.”

 

“Then thank you so much for participating. If you want to follow up on the study, don’t hesitate to email and see how it’s progressing.”

 

They leave her with sincere best wishes in her work, and head back outside. The new semester is just beginning, the road before them is devoid of people, and Ransom is as relaxed as he’ll ever be this semester. So Holster take the opportunity to yank Ransom aside and press him up against a tree for a solid minute, just kissing him and reveling in the sensation of Ransom’s hands on his hips. He doesn’t need to read deeply into the Ransom-meter to feel Ransom’s sheer delight radiating outwards.

 

“God, I love dating you,” says Ransom.

 

“No more, what did you say they were? Conditional statements or some shit?” he says in between kisses.

 

Ransom pauses. “The whole ‘if we were dating?’ I realized yesterday, after we’d gone to sleep, that those statements are actually subjunctives, not conditionals. So, you know.”

 

Holster levels his best disbelieving gaze at Ransom. “I cannot believe you’re bringing in grammar corrections to this conversation.”

 

“Technically, you were the first to bring it in.”

 

Holster ignores him. He knows that he’s right in spirit, if not in technicalities. “Okay, well, if grammar is going to be such a turn-on for you, what’s this, nerdboy? By the end of the night, you’ll have forgotten everything you ever learned in English class. Everything you learned in any class for that matter, if I have anything to say about it.”

 

Ransom actually thinks about it. “That’s future perfect,” he says. “Saying ‘you will have,’ that’s future perfect tense.”

 

“Future perfect,” says Holster. “Huh, I kind of like that.”

 

Ransom rolls his eyes. “Now who’s the nerd?”

 

“Oh, it’s definitely still you,” he says. “Luckily for you, I can look past it.”

 

Ransom kisses him again, and Holster thinks, future perfect indeed. The present is already as good as it gets.

**Author's Note:**

> For the sake of tired, overworked grad students everywhere, please do not do this irl. Data are precious and should be treated with care, especially in the social sciences when removing biases is already so damn difficult. But this is a fictional world and I wanted it to be this way, so lo and behold, it is.


End file.
